A Holy Vengeance (6 page)

A short time later, Nicolaa was still sitting in the solar alone. She had given Gianni a brief précis of that portion of Mistress Turner’s evidence he had missed—wording it so that the lad did not suffer any embarrassment—and then he had gone to write up his notes. The castellan walked over to the window and, because the solar was situated at the top of the keep, she could see a far distance. To the south, beyond the bail and the castle walls, lay the town, the diverse collection of buildings almost seeming to slide down the side of the knoll on which the castle and Minster were set, terminating at the banks of the Witham River. Once again a murderer was disturbing the peace of those who lived in the bailiwick for which she and her husband were responsible, and she was determined to see justice done in order to bring a modicum of solace to the family of the slain woman.

As she was pondering the problem, a servant came to tell her that Roger de Rolleston, dean of Lincoln cathedral, was in the hall and requesting a private audience with her. She nodded in assent and told the manservant to show him up and to bring some refreshment for his comfort.

A few moments later, the dean was shown into the room and a flagon of herbal cordial flavoured with honey was set on a table near the unlit fireplace. Motioning her guest to be seated, she returned to her own chair.

Dean Roger was a man of young years for his office. He was of medium height, a bit pudgy, and had kindly blue eyes. Mild mannered and equable, he was popular with the other clerics in the town and also the townsfolk.

“Bishop William has sent me to enquire into the progress that is being made in the search for the murderer of the young woman at St. Dunstan’s shrine.”

Bishop William’s full name was William of Blois, and he had just been elected to his post the previous year. The see had been vacant for over two years after the death of the saintly Hugh of Avalon, and William had finally been appointed. So far, he had proved himself very capable in his new office.

“We are not much further forward than when her body was found,” Nicolaa replied. “Why is the bishop concerned about the matter?”

Dean Roger took a sip from his cup before speaking. “Even though the murder took place only yesterday, lady, there is a burgeoning panic in the town. Rumour is rife and they are fearful.”

“How so?” Nicolaa asked.

“Because it is being said that Satan is responsible, either by taking on the shape of a man and committing the evil deed Himself, or by sending a demon to possess some hapless individual and forcing him to kill on hallowed ground. The whole populace is now afraid that this devilish assailant will seek out another holy place to commit murder and, as a result, are reluctant to attend Mass lest they, too, be struck down.”

The dean placed his cup down beside him and raised troubled eyes to Nicolaa. “Mass at the cathedral this morning was attended by only a faithful few, and even they were full of anxiety, not giving full attention to the service but looking around them continuously, each one at his neighbour, wondering if the killer was amongst them. I have been told this also happened in most of the other churches in Lincoln today.”

Nicolaa was horror-stricken. “But this panic is unwarranted. There is no proof that the Devil was involved; the simple facts are that a young woman was stabbed to death by an unknown assailant, and that is all.”

Dean Roger shook his head sadly. “Logic will not prevail here, lady, I regret to say. The only way to quell their fear is for the murderer to be caught and his motive proved to be an earthly one. If this does not happen soon, I fear our houses of worship will be empty and, whether or not Satan is responsible, He will surely rejoice at the outcome.”

Nicolaa stirred uneasily in her chair. There were many references in the Bible to men and women being possessed by demons and, as much as she did not want to believe that such was the case in this death, she could not, with any surety, deny that it was a possibility.

“Bishop William has promised to reconsecrate St. Dunstan’s shrine in the hope it will allay alarm,” the dean continued, “but it would, of course, greatly assist our purpose if the murderer was captured and the people’s fear put to rest. That is why I am come, to enquire if you are hopeful of an early arrest.”

“I cannot answer your question with any certainty,” Nicolaa replied. “I shall do my utmost to discover the murderer’s identity with all speed but, as I am sure you will agree, the outcome is in God’s hands, not mine.”

“Just so, lady,” the dean replied. Thanking her politely for her time, he drained his cup and rose from his seat. “The bishop would be obliged if you would keep him apprised of the situation and has asked me to relay to you his assurance that if he can be of any assistance in the search for the assailant, you have only to ask and his help will be given.”

Nicolaa felt a great weight descend on her as the dean left the chamber. This was a situation that could not be allowed to continue, and one that she, as castellan of Lincoln castle, and deputy in his absence for her husband, Gerard, sheriff of Lincoln, bore the responsibility of resolving. The murderer must be apprehended with all haste if the disquietude of the townspeople was to be mollified. Setting her cup down on the table, she left the solar with an air of determination and made her way to the scriptorium.

The chamber where Nicolaa’s clerks carried out their duties was set at the top of one of the corner turrets of the keep, and had larger casements than those on the lower floors to allow a good proportion of daylight to enter. There were three lecterns in the room; Gianni was working at one of them while Lambert, a clerk of more mature years, was transcribing documents at the desk next to him. John Blund was seated at a table, making notes from the information recorded on the sheets of parchment in front of him. The air was filled with the pungent odour of ink and an atmosphere of serenity.

When the castellan entered, they were all surprised, for she almost never came to the chamber unannounced. Quickly scrambling up from their seats, they all gave her a nod of deference, but she made a signal for them to be reseated, while she herself remained standing.

“I regret the need to disturb your working day, John, and interrupt the duties of your clerks,” she said to Blund hurriedly, “but a matter of some urgency has arisen about which I must speak to you all.”

Blund nodded respectfully, and waited for her to continue. “It is concerning the murder that took place yesterday. The killer must be found with all despatch, and I have need of someone to lead the investigation on my behalf.” She paused for a moment and then said, “I have in mind for Gianni to assist me in this matter, John, but I am loath, in view of your ill health, to burden you with the extra work that will be laid on your and Lambert’s shoulders by his absence. Can you manage without him for a few days?

“Of course, lady,” Blund replied, noting Gianni’s look of surprise and gratification at their mistress’s request, and Lambert’s quick nod of acquiescence. “The midsummer rolls will not be submitted for a week or two yet, and those from Lady Day have all been checked and filed away. There are only the daily accounts to contend with at the moment, and Lambert and I can easily cope with those on our own.”

“Very well,” the castellan said gratefully. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

She turned to Gianni. “You will attend me immediately,” she instructed. “We have much to discuss and time is of the essence.”

* * *

Once seated in her private chamber, the castellan quickly related to Gianni how alarm had spread through the town because of the murder and why, and that it was crucial to learn the killer’s identity as soon as possible.

“This investigation must be undertaken swiftly,” she said, “and that is why I have taken you away from your duties.”

Gianni nodded obediently, and tried to conceal his apprehension. He, like all of Christendom, was fearful of the Devil and His minions. To hunt down a human murderer was physically dangerous, it was true, but his heart quailed at the thought of confronting a satanic killer. Dark memories from his early childhood of witnessing the power of evil surged unbidden into his mind, and it was with great difficulty that he forced them aside so he could listen attentively as Lady Nicolaa went on.

“While I know that you are fully capable of conducting this investigation on your own, Gianni, you are as aware as I that your inability to speak makes it difficult for you to question witnesses or potential suspects.”

Again Gianni nodded. In the initial stages of the investigation of the king’s murdered servant in Canterbury, Miles de Laxton, a literate household knight who had accompanied them on the journey south, had assisted Gianni in gathering relevant information by reading the questions that the lad had written down on his wax tablet, and the ensuing interrogations had proved a simple task. But now Miles was away, included in the escort Gerard Camville had taken with him on his few days’ sojourn outside Lincoln, and so was not available.

“Neither Roget nor Ernulf, unfortunately,” Nicolaa continued, “can read or write, and cannot aid you in this aspect. Apart from Lambert—who cannot be spared from the scriptorium
—
there is no other person among my servants that is suitable, so I have it in mind to ask Preceptor d’Arderon if he will allow Bascot de Marins to come to our aid.”

This time Gianni’s nod was a thankful one. The Templar was a soldier of Christ, and his strong faith would be a protective shield against the wiles of the Devil. Quite apart from that, Bascot was a man the lad loved above all others; not only had the Templar rescued him from starvation in his native Palermo by taking him on as his servant and bringing him to England, but he also had taught Gianni to read and write and was responsible for the fulfilment of the lad’s heartfelt aspiration to become a clerk. His company was welcome at any time, but most especially now.

“If de Marins cannot be spared,” Nicolaa added, “then we must rethink our tactics, but I hope it will not come to that, and we will not concern ourselves with the problem until after I have received Preceptor d’Arderon’s reply.”

As the castellan began to dictate the message that was to be sent to the Templar enclave, Gianni sent up a prayer of his own that his former master would be allowed to come to the aid of his mistress—and himself.

The temporary preceptor, Feradac MacHeth, had arrived earlier that morning and was with d’Arderon when Lady Nicolaa’s request arrived. The Scot was a tall, rangily built knight, with wiry sandy-coloured hair and freckled skin. To d’Arderon’s relief, he appeared full of energy, even though he had recently been sent back to England from Portugal after a prolonged bout of dysentery had left him too debilitated to carry out his duties.

“I’m almost recovered now, Brother Everard,” he assured the preceptor in an accent that held barely a trace of his Scottish origins. “I was expecting to soon be able to return to my post when your request arrived, and so Master Berard thought it would be worthwhile to complete my convalescence here, and fulfil your duties until a permanent preceptor is found to take your place.”

“I am grateful to both you and Master Berard,” d’Arderon replied. “I must admit that I have left my retirement past time, but I was loath to leave.”

“Do not be downhearted, Brother, and take comfort in the knowledge that you have served Christ and the Order well for many a year. Our Lord willing, you will have a long and comfortable rest.”

At that moment one of the castle men-at-arms arrived with the message from Lady Nicolaa. D’Arderon scanned it; his literacy was not of a high standard but he managed to comprehend the drift of it, and told MacHeth what it contained and that he intended to comply with the request.

“I have heard of Brother Bascot,” MacHeth replied, “and his talent for rooting out secret murderers. It is a gift from God and, you are right, it should be used whenever there is need.”

* * *

A short time later Bascot went to the castle. As he rode through the Minster grounds after leaving the preceptory, he was surprised to see that the huge open space around the cathedral was devoid of human presence, with only one or two stray dogs in sight. There were no parishioners, nor even any of the stall-holders that sold hot pies and other pastries to those that came to attend the services. It was an eerie sight, and one that sent an uneasy chill through him.

When he arrived at the keep, the steward, Eudo, came hurriedly to greet him, and told him that Lady Nicolaa had left word he was to be granted immediate access to her presence.

“She is in the herb garden, Sir Bascot,” Eudo said, “and will, I know, be very pleased to receive you.”

The Templar knew the environs of the castle well from the time when he and Gianni had lived there when they first came to Lincoln, and made his way to the sheltered space in a corner of the bail where herbs for cooking, cleansing and medicinal purposes were grown. At this time of year the aroma from the growing plants was delightful. Scents of mint, marjoram, rosemary and thyme co-mingled in heady profusion, bringing pleasure to the senses.

When he went through the gate into the garden, he saw Lady Nicolaa seated on a stone bench, her serving maid, Clare, standing beside her holding a small parcel of wrapped linen. Gianni was also there and his face lit up with pleasure when he saw his former master. The Templar responded with a heartfelt smile of his own. He and the lad had not seen each other since they had been in Canterbury some months before, but the bond between them was strong and parting could never diminish it.

The castellan also gave him a warm greeting. “I take it by your presence here, de Marins, that Preceptor d’Arderon has given permission for you to investigate this latest murder?”

“He has, lady, and was more than willing to do so,” Bascot replied.

“Then you are well come indeed, de Marins. I trust that with your aid this villain will be found without delay. Come, sit by me and I will give you the details.”

When Bascot was seated, Nicolaa hesitated for a moment and then said, “Before I begin, I must first warn you that the townspeople have become very alarmed by this killing because the crime was perpetrated in a place of holiness. They are, I have been told, convinced that the Devil took on the guise of a mortal and committed the crime Himself, or else He sent an evil entity to possess the man who did it, even though there is, so far, no evidence to indicate the truth of either conception. As a result, they are fearful the murderer may strike again in another sacred precinct and so are reluctant to attend Mass, or any other service. The town’s churches are almost empty.”

The deserted appearance of the cathedral grounds was now explained and Bascot nodded. “It is not surprising they should think thus. Secret murder in a holy place is a crime of great sacrilege, and it is difficult to comprehend that anyone other than Satan would be responsible for such a deed. Let us pray that we will soon be able to resolve the truth of the matter.”

Nicolaa heaved a sigh of relief. De Marins, as a Templar knight and a soldier for Christ, was one of those of whom St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the main supporter of the Order, had written, “are secure on every side, for their souls are protected by the armour of faith, just as their bodies are protected by the armour of steel. They are thus doubly armed, and need fear neither demons nor men.” To have Bascot’s help would greatly facilitate the investigation if a demonic entity was involved.

The castellan then apprised Bascot of the information that had been gleaned so far—that the woman who had been murdered was Emma Ferroner, the daughter of a prominent armourer, how the death was reported to the reeve of Burton village by Constance Turner, that the reeve had then transported the corpse back to Lincoln bringing Mistress Turner with him, of the perfumer’s subsequent arrest, and that Roget had advised the victim’s father and husband of her death. She also told him that Gianni would be excused from his clerical work to aid in the investigation.

“I am not fully certain of Mistress Turner’s guilt, de Marins,” she added, relating how the perfumer had claimed to have been saved from death herself by a pair of ravens that guarded the shrine and of her own doubts about whether this was true or not. “If she is telling the truth, then we must look further afield for the person responsible.”

She paused for a moment and then said, “In accord with your premise that a victim’s corpse should always be examined for traces of the murderer’s identity, and since, for propriety’s sake, it was appropriate that a woman carry out the chore, I sent Clare earlier this morning to inspect the body, just as she did with the king’s slain female servant in Canterbury. Unless you wish a further examination to be made after you have heard her report, I shall arrange for Mistress Ferroner’s remains to be taken to the chapel of St. Thomas, the parish church where she is to be buried.”

Bascot looked at Clare in anticipation. She was a fresh-faced and comely young woman who was a sempstress in the castle household but also acted, on occasion, as Lady Nicolaa’s tirewoman. It had been in the latter capacity that she had been included in the castellan’s entourage when Nicolaa had travelled to Canterbury a few months ago and had, as just mentioned, assisted in the subsequent murder investigation by scrutinising the murdered woman’s body for traces of her killer. On that occasion, although she had been dismayed by the gruesome nature of the chore, she had been very competent; he expected she would prove to be the same this time.

“As stated by Constance Turner, and now confirmed by Clare, Mistress Ferroner’s life was taken by two stab wounds in the back. The perfumer said that she expired almost immediately,” Nicolaa continued, “and also told us that the knife used to murder her friend was dropped by the assailant at the scene of the crime when the ravens attacked him, and she retrieved it later. To confirm that it truly is the weapon that was used, Clare has compared the width of the blade with the wounds on the body and tells me it matches.”

She turned to the sempstress and directed her to show the knife to Bascot.

Clare unwrapped the bundle she was holding and handed him the weapon with a shudder of distaste. “I inserted the knife into both of the wounds, lord. It fits them exactly, right up to the hilt.”

Bascot looked carefully at the weapon. It was an ordinary knife, with a blade of moderate width and a length of about seven inches, of a type that would be used for trimming leather, cutting reeds or similar tasks, and long enough to have pierced the heart and brought about the quick death that Mistress Turner had described. He looked up at Clare.

“What is the position of the wounds?” he asked.

“They are both on the left side of the back, high up, between the spine and the shoulder blade,” she replied, “and betwixt two pair of ribs, one above the other.”

The Templar looked at Nicolaa and raised his eyebrows, and the castellan, in turn, nodded. “The work of a hired assassin, do you think?” she asked.

Bascot gave her query some thought before he answered. Both of them were aware, Bascot by his military expertise and the castellan through her involvement with the training of the garrison soldiers, that it is not always an easy task to kill by striking at the back of an enemy or victim. The upper part of the torso is well protected by the bones of the skeleton, both front and back, and it often requires numerous thrusts to effect injury serious enough to cause death. To find the vulnerable spot between the upper ribs with just two blows, as had happened in this case, requires the fine hand of an experienced killer.

“Perhaps,” he said to Nicolaa, “but it is a strange blade for a man seasoned to arms to use. I would have expected such a killer to use one more suitable for his purpose.” A long thin knife such as a misericorde—a dagger often carried by knights that was comprised of not much more than a narrow spike and was an effective killing weapon—would have been much more efficient. It would have slid into the spaces between the ribs with ease.

“And then there is the fact that the assailant dropped it,” he added. “An experienced assassin would be ready for attack from any quarter; when the ravens flew at him is it not more likely he would have struck out at them with his weapon than panicked and dropped it?”

“That troubled me, too,” the castellan admitted. “Do you think the perfumer could have killed her friend and is fabricating this story of an assailant to cover her own guilt?”

The Templar mused on her question before he made a reply. “I suppose it is possible, although the thrusts must have been delivered strongly, perhaps too hardly for a woman’s strength. And surely it is not likely she would have enough knowledge of the human anatomy to deliver such well-directed blows.”

“She is young and appears vigorous. The passion of the moment may have lent power to her arm,” the castellan responded to his first objection. “And,” she added with regard to the second, “her father was an apothecary. Might she not have learned the structure of the skeleton through him?”

“Perhaps,” Bascot admitted. “It is a likelihood we shall have to bear in mind.”

He looked again at the knife; the killer must have wielded it from a sideways position so that the blade entered her body horizontally, for the blade was too wide to have entered vertically without being impeded by bone. He asked Clare if this was so and she gave him confirmation that the wounds were horizontal in placement.

He again turned the knife over in his hands. There was nothing on it to give any indication of who might have owned it. At the join of the blade with the haft was a strip of grimy residue where it had not been cleansed properly. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about its appearance. He re-wrapped it in the square of linen and put it aside on the bench and then asked Clare if she had seen any marks other than the stab wounds on the body.

“Only two small abrasions, lord, one on her forehead and the other on her cheek, that likely happened when she fell face forward and struck the ground after she was stabbed.”

“And you examined her clothing as well?” Bascot asked.

“I did,” she confirmed, “and except for the blood on the back of her gown, and some traces of dirt on the front from the greenwood floor, there was nothing that seemed untoward.”

“And her appearance,” Bascot said, “would you describe her to me?”

Clare reflected on the request for a moment before answering. “She was tall for a woman, lord, and lean, with not much flesh on her bones. Her hair was pale brown and her complexion fair.” She hesitated for a moment, and then added, “Although it seems disrespectful to speak so of the poor woman, she was not well-favoured. Not only were her features plain, but she had some small scars on her face, as well as on her torso and arms and legs. The marks looked old, and I do not think were inflicted by accident or intent, but were probably the result of a skin infection she suffered during her childhood. She had one attractive attribute, however, and that was her eyes. They were of a luminous shade of green that, with life’s animation, would have been beautiful.”

“You have done well, Clare,” Nicolaa commended, knowing how distasteful the sempstress had found the experience. “You may return to the keep now. If Sir Bascot has any further questions, I will send for you.”

As the young woman walked quietly away, Bascot studied the castellan. The last time he had seen her had been at the end of January, almost five months before, when he had returned a sealed letter she had entrusted to him in Canterbury with the instructions to keep it, unopened, until she should arrive safely back in Lincoln. She had never revealed to him what the missive had contained, but he was certain it had some connection to the king. She had seemed strained throughout the whole murder investigation in Canterbury and her malaise had not improved on the last occasion he had been in her company. But now, he was pleased to note, she seemed to have regained the composure that had been natural to her during the years he had known her. Her small figure was upright and radiated a familiar confidence.

“Well, de Marins, what is the next step you wish to take?” she asked. “You will want to speak to the relatives of the dead woman, I expect. Do you wish to do that next? Or would you rather interrogate Mistress Turner?”

“First I would like Gianni to accompany me to the shrine,” Bascot said, with a glance at the lad, who nodded in agreement, “to ensure the killer has not left any traces that have been overlooked. From there we can go to Burton. The murderer may have been in the neighbourhood prior to attacking the victim—one of villagers might have seen him without realising the purpose of his presence there.”